Tag Archives: Bald

Delusions of Insignificance

Delusions of Insignificance

The Boyfriend Candidate is really cute but he so exhausts me.  We got into a rift.  In truth he got into the rift by himself while I painted my toenails.

As I’ve mentioned before, my guy is a problem solver.  I don’t mean with the admirable skill of analytically attacking a challenge.  I mean he cannot function without a problem.  And when there isn’t a problem, he can always make one up.

The problem he was making up was not original:  job dissatisfaction.  this is one of those unsolvable problems that keeps him invigorated and me drained.  On cue, he asks for my advice.  I always say the same thing:  fix it, live with it, or get out.  If you can’t change the company from within, then you must accept one of two things; learn to live with it by appreciating a less than perfect situation OR look for another job.  I mean just look around because often times by looking you realize what you have ain’t so bad.  But wait, my advice might actually solve his problem leaving him problem-less, so it’s ignored.

He went off on me for being dismissive.  I rolled my eyes; I’m so bored with this.  He likes being the underdog, the disenfranchised.  Having the odds against him helps create focus.  So, in fact, he is exactly where he needs to be in order to excel.  I told him that too.  I’ impressed with his creativity an his ability to manipulate a situation to his advantage (jeez, I even managed a compliment).  But I wasn’t getting sucked into some made up drama that he had no real intention of relinquishing.  I continued painting my nails and tuned him out.

He looked completely rejected — probably because he was.  Only a sick woman would indulge his delusion of insignificance.  I’m not that woman.

And he was disappointed.  That’s kinda sad.

The problem solver with no problems

The problem solver with no problems

The Boyfriend Candidate is starting to unnerve me.  And it boils down to this: he is a problem solver and I really don’t have problems for him to solve.  Of course, there is a touch of control freak in there too – but that’s for another day.  His solutions end up being the only solutions.

There was a time when I was a walking problem factory.  Those days are gone and what’s left is your garden variety, typical functioning single mom.  There are all the typical things, but nothing extraordinary and nothing I can’t handle  Alone.  By myself.  With absolute confidence.

A few days ago I had a rough morning with the boys.  I gingerly, with some apprehension, mention this to the BC.  I want to talk about my feelings, frustrations.  And he says to me, with sincerely earnestness, “Well, it’s not surprising.  Your life is shit.  You are alone.  And those boys know they outnumber you.  You have no power.  Of course you feel that way.”

Uh… wtf?

Then he tried to solve my problem.  The problem he made up, defined and identified.

“What you need are better parenting techniques.”  Then this man with zero children expounded upon the many techniques I could endeavor to apply.  “Have you heard of something called ‘time out’?”  Oh jeez.  Or this one, “I’ve read that positive reinforcement can provide a road map to better behavior.  A child told what not to do may not know what to do.”  For crying out loud.

And my feelings were never discussed.  I realized then that I almost never get what I need from this man.  He’s a wonderful man, but he hands me a chainsaw when I need a Band-aid.  It’s interesting, the rush to solve a problem that doesn’t exist, all the while an opportunity for intimacy is waiting.  Let’s talk about my vulnerability and disappointment… in my own children.  That’s big.

The ideal response from the BC would have been something like “You’re feeling under-appreciated.  I appreciate you and one day your kids will too.” I probably would have cried and believed that he saw into my soul.

Nope, the moment passed him right by.  But he managed to walk away self-satisfied.

I love you; you disgust me

I love you; you disgust me

I consider my Boyfriend Candidate one of the funniest guys I know.  And intelligent.  It’s a hard combo to find.  There are some notable exceptions, but most of the time I find the funny guys are hiding their stupid behind their funny.

Nevertheless, my guy crosses the line a lot into vulgar and disgusting.  Lately I’ve noticed it crossing over into really gross and embarrassing.  I went to his house last night.  He bumped into a neighbor who had been sailing that afternoon.  Basically, my guy said, “How was it?  You got any women with you on that boat?  Serving you drinks or anything else?”  I audibly groaned.  I don’t know that guy.  That was just awkward.  Later, I said something about a hair’s breadth away from something.  He then chimed in with a story about units of measurements in aerospace engineering.  He heard these presumably competent engineers, say something was as narrow as a gnat’s eyebrow or a c**t hair.  He thought that was hysterical.  I had no need for that to be in my brain.  And I’m sorry I just put it in yours. I was disgusted.  Am I a guy in a locker room?  Do men in locker rooms really even talk like that?  I suspect not.  Somewhere in there I told him that humor like that only served to reduce my opinion of him.

This hints at a larger issue.  He should feel free to say whatever, to disclose and dream.  I want him to share his unspoken ambitions and dark sexual fantasies.  But I don’t want him to cross that line into grossing me out or being perversely, publicly rude.  And where is that line?  I can’t say I just know it’s there.  So we talked about it.  He thought it was an interesting dilemma.  He definitely didn’t want me to be disgusted by him so he would try to self sensor a little more.

Two hours later.  We’re at a bar chatting it up with the cute young bartender who is going to cosmetology school and is a hair stylist.  She said there was a lot of money in simple blow outs and in Brazilian blow outs.  I bristled.  I knew it was coming.  She said “blow out” and she said “Brazilian”.  Double whammy, it was too much for my guy.  “Hey, I didn’t think there was any hair in a Brazilian!” and a couple minutes later “And how is that Brazilian blow job different from the regular kind?!”  Our girl looked like she was going to throw up.  I put my head down on the bar.  No one was laughing.  “Hey, what’d I say? I thought it was funny.”

He’s working on it.  We’ve got a ways to go.

Incidental family

Incidental family

When my landlord decided to lease the guestroom in my house, Gaefan became an incidental member of our family.  When he moved into our lives, I was one year into the divorce process, one year into a job hunt, I was way behind on rent and I was shouldering $80k of credit card debt my ex created by secretly supporting his failing business with my credit cards. Since he used my cards, I was also dodging the phone calls from Citibank.

My parents were retired and lived inTexas.  Still do.  My father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.  I was working six part-time jobs and still not able to pay the bills.  I had also started dating a guy fairly regularly.  He was employed, good looking, crude and probably an alcoholic.  Some of my best stories have to do with the Boyfriend Candidate.  He was and is quite something.

So basically, I was busy and panicked.  I had relationships going and coming.  I was trying to keep the lives of my three boys normal, at a level of privilege they had gotten used to, but was impossible to maintain.  The days of immediate gratification and spontaneous generosity were over.  I came up with an empowering action list.  I love lists.

Option 1. Get a job.  I had been a stay-at-home, home-schooling mom to my slightly autistic son.  That would have to end.  He started brick and mortar and I started pounding the pavement.  I submitted my resume to over 500 companies in the 8 months I was out of work.  I had temp jobs that floated me.  I transcribed.  I participated in surveys, and I dated for dinner.  Best of all I started web and blog writing.

Option 2. Get remarried, quickly, to man who would make all our problems go away.  It could happen.  I figured I’d fall in love again one day.  If that day could be today, that would be really convenient.

Option 3. Prepare to move back to Texas.  If 1 and 2 didn’t work out, singularly or in combination, that would be all that was left.  Me and my three would be moving into a three bedroom with my elderly retired parents, one of whom was suffering from dementia.  These are not the warm fuzzy grandparents that I hear other children have.  My mother takes no prisoners and my dad is a mystery.  So finding a job or finding the love of my life was really critical.

So into my very ordered, yet unpredictable life comes Gaefan.  He was all hippie auras and holistic transcendence.  He was so far out there he looped all the way around, back to self-righteous and had no idea.

When I met Gaefan, it was late at night.  I opened the door to a much older man, shaved head, energetic.  I didn’t get any kind of a vibe off him so he seemed safe.  Not a child molester, not a gay pedophile, not hot for me.  No flags.

He was British and had the accent.  Clearly delightful.  I gave him the tour.  We have a yard; he had a dog.  I told him then my children were allergic to dogs so his would need to have limited range.  He seemed ok with that.

And he was in.

We need to talk

We need to talk

My Boyfriend Candidate texted me this morning, “We need to talk.”  At which point I asked myself, why didn’t he call if he actually watned to speak?  But not one to get hung up on details, only distracted by them, I texted back “cool”.  THen four hours went by.

I don’t know about you, but when my guy says he needs to talk, I go into red alert.  Guys don’t want to talk at all ever, if he needs to talk now, that’s some big shit, right?  So, I literally sat there staring at the phone waiting for it to vibrate.  Finally, I couldn’t take it any more, I was starting to stress eat the last of the eggnog yogurt covered almonds, and I texted him that I needed to know the next move.  He then says he’s under radio silence: he’s taking a yoga class.

Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up.

We finally get together.  The confrontation required negotiating and careful manipulation, the details of which I won’t bore you with.  He basically says that he feels that he can’t talk to me about my life.  That whenever he has a suggestion or advice, I’m not open to it.  OK.  First of all, giving me advice is quite the opposite of having a discussion about my life.  For men, they want to problem solve.  For women, we want to be heard.  I know at this early stage of our relationship that the BC doesn’t get that yet.  When I start to talk about my life, I just want to be empathized with.  I know what needs to be done.  I’ll do it.  I just need to talk.  Do not solve my problems for me. . . unless I ask.  All women work this way.  In any case, no, I don’t want to hear whatever from you about my life.  You don’t know me well enough and it makes you look arrogant instead of simply galant.

Also, he is a control freak.  My way of controlling the control freak is to shut him down.  He starts to opine about what time is best for me to check the mail or best ways to teach table etiquette to my sons and I change the subject abruptly.

The fact is, we are too old for this.  He is a mature man of a certain age who knows with certainty what is right.  I’m a certain woman of a certain younger age who feels the same. We often times don’t agree.  I’d rather not even talk about it so, guilty as charged, sir you win.  You are right, you may not talk about my life.

I’m glad he’s confident, self-assured and reticent.  And for better or worse, he found a woman who is the same way.

Sex for the first time again

Sex for the first time again

I’m recently divorced after 16 years of what was probably pretty typical marriage.  Except for those last four years when he moved out of our marital bed because he suddenly needed to watch TV before going to sleep.  Oh, and then he quit wearing his wedding ring because of eczema.  And then there was that last year when he just stopped coming home because of the long days and late nights trying to save his business.

I mention this not because I can’t bitch enough about the ex – I truly believe he did the best he could for a guy that didn’t want to be part of a family.  I mention it because about two months after he finally left, I went on a date.  I’m not one of those women who swore off men.  On the contrary, I’m one of those women who was furious because her ex was standing in the way.  If you don’t want me, move on so I can find someone who does!  So first date – and sue me – I start thinking about sex.

How is this going to work?  I mean I know basic physiology.  I have three children.  But I had this whole deer in the headlights thing about “Oh my God, what if single people today are doing things differently??”  Date Two goes by and Date Three is approaching.  My young single girlfriends tell me this is the critical date.  Date Three is usually the sex date.  Since when?  My very good friend Erin bucks the trend.  She tells me to resist.  Wait at least a month because the honeymoon period will likey be waning and perhaps I’ll see him for what he is:  54 and balding.  Erin, at 26, can’t imagine there is anything sexy about 54 and balding and wants me to reconsider the whole thing.

Well, I’m happy to say I held out til Date Four.  And you know it wasn’t a big deal.  Four glasses of wine later I was feeling very confident.  But you know, it was completely different from the sex and dating of 20 years ago.  I wasn’t concerned about accidental pregnancy since I’m past ovulating.  I wasn’t concerned about my reputation because who the hell cares.  It actually felt odd, laying there in the dark, post coital whispering, NOT worrying about any of those things.  I was liberated.  And then he asked the question:  “How long has it been for you?”  Considering the short time since my husband had left, he was very surprised to hear that had been four years since I’d had sex.  Something I actually had never told anyone.  No one is proud of a sexless marriage.

Then he stole my heart by saying, “Yeah, about the same for me.  I just don’t understand these kids today who can’t get past the third date.”

Dating old guys

Dating old guys

I remember when I got divorced, I did not swear off men.  I swore off that particular man.  Seriously, it took about 48 hours from the time he told me he was leaving for me to decide on a dating website and get on with it.

I had my first date a month later.  It completely freaked me out.  I showed up early, then he called to say he’d be late.  I was sweating in spite of layers of Sure Fresh Scent.  I waited at the bar and confided in the bartender.  She was completely supportive, “You know, the emergency exit door by the restrooms isn’t really locked.  If you need to run, well, you have a way out.  Don’t tell anyone I told you.”  She got a big tip on that Diet Coke tab.

He showed up, taller than I thought, which is good, but also older, much older.  The whole time we were at lunch all I could think of was that he was so old.  And he dyed his hair.  Badly.  My God, we were the same age.  Was he thinking I was old too?  Am I old?  Who goes out looking to date an old man?  Not me.

The conversation was good, I think.  I know we had a zillion things in common.  Even our parents’ professions were the same.  All of that should have left me starstruck about how the forces of the universe had brought us together, but instead all I could think about was seeing him naked.  Visions of gray pubic hair filled my mind.  Or what if he badly died the nether regions as well?  It’s painful to think about even today.

He had a business meeting and excused himself thereby saving me from making a mad dash to the “restroom” and down the  rabbit hole.  We didn’t speak again.  I was a little less anxious at my next date and so relieved that he was fit and hot and had beautiful, albeit thinning, salt and pepper hair.  He was funny and confident.  He was young no matter what his numbers were.

I did not immediately look for the exit.  That would come almost two years later.